Chronicle of a Single Abuja Lady
I met my husband at The Village by Tikera because, apparently, after all the prayers I had prayed, God decided the final location of my marital breakthrough should be somewhere between a food vendor and a man who had absolutely no business walking into me.
Let me explain.
I had just bought food.
And when I say I had just bought food, I mean I had carefully inspected the options, calculated what my stomach wanted versus what my pocket could afford, and finally made the kind of decision that requires wisdom.
I was happy. Peaceful. Content. My food was in my hand. My bag was on my shoulder. My spirit was calm. For once, I wasn't thinking about marriage. I wasn't thinking about whether my husband was somewhere in Abuja. I wasn't thinking about Shiloh. I wasn't thinking about NSPPD. I wasn't thinking about Pastor Jerry Eze. I wasn't thinking about Commanding the Day Midnight Prayer. I wasn't thinking about Hallelujah Challenge.
I wasn't even thinking about that prayer I had recently made:
“Baba God! Prove to my enemies that I am not a wood!”
No.
At that moment, I was thinking about one thing:
How to eat my food.
And just as I was about to turn around to bring out money from my pocket, somebody bumped into me. Not brushed past me. Not accidentally touched my shoulder.
Bumped. Into. Me.
My food nearly flew.
My bag shifted.
My entire body moved approximately three business inches.
I froze.
In my head, I was already preparing a speech.
Oh God.
Which kind of person is this? Is Abuja not already stressful enough? Must you now add physical assault to my day?
I turned around ready to give the kind of look that says, Sir, I don't know who raised you, but clearly they tried.
Then I looked up.
And...
Hmm.
Ladies.
Ladies.
I forgot the speech. I forgot the anger. I forgot the food. I forgot my entire personality.
Because standing in front of me was a very tall, very handsome man.
Not “he's okay.”
Not “he's manageable.”
I mean fine.
The kind of fine that makes a woman suddenly reconsider whether the accident was actually an accident. For about three seconds, my brain went completely blank. This was the same brain that had been prepared to give him a lecture on personal space.
Gone.
Evaporated.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
And somewhere inside my head, my spirit whispered:
“Madam, behave yourself.”
But another part of me said:
“Please, food can wait. We have seen something.”
I was still holding my food. The food was literally getting cold in my hand. But suddenly, I was satisfied. I had seen enough. My appetite had temporarily relocated. The man immediately started apologising.
“I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't see you.”
I said, “It's fine.”
It was not fine.
But he was handsome, so suddenly my definition of fine had expanded.
He apologised again.
“Honestly, I'm really sorry.”
I said, “It's okay.”
He apologised again.
At this point, I was beginning to wonder whether he had bumped into me or committed a felony.
“I'm really, really sorry.”
I said, “It's fine.”
And then he noticed that something had spilled on my bag.
His face changed.
“Oh my God. I'm so sorry. Look at your bag.”
He immediately took it from me and started helping me clean it. Now, let me tell you something about Nigerian women. We say “No problem” while internally writing a full report. But when a man takes responsibility without being begged?
We notice.
He didn't stand there giving excuses.
He didn't say, “But you were standing there.”
He didn't say, “It's not a big deal.”
He didn't disappear.
He took my bag.
Cleaned it.
Checked if anything else had been damaged.
Asked if I was okay.
And kept apologising.
At that point, I was confused.
Because this was no longer an argument.
This was looking suspiciously like customer service.
Then he looked at the food in my hand.
“Did I spoil your food?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “Please let me replace it.”
I said, “No, it's fine.”
He said, “Please.”
I said, “Really, it's okay.”
He said, “I insist.”
Now...
Why would I refuse?
I love food.
I love food with a passion that deserves documentation. If there is one thing I am not going to reject because I am trying to appear independent, it is free food. Independence is important. But so is lunch. So I allowed him to buy me another one. Then another thing happened. He asked if I had explored the whole event.
I said no.
He said, “Let me show you around.”
Now normally, a sensible woman should say:
“No, thank you. I can find my way.”
But remember...
This man was fine.
And I had just received free food.
So suddenly, I was very interested in culture, creativity, networking, art, community and every other thing happening at The Village by Tikera. He started showing me around. We talked. We laughed.
He pointed out different things happening around the venue. I discovered that he was funny.
Then intelligent.
Then kind.
Then attentive.
This was becoming dangerous. Because now I wasn't just looking at his face. I was listening to him. And unfortunately for me, he had sense. That combination is not safe for a single woman.
Fine face plus sense?
Baba God, have mercy!
At some point, he asked me if I wanted something else to eat.
I said no.
He said, “Are you sure?”
I said yes.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Then I said:
“Actually, there's something I saw earlier.”
Ladies, I have no shame.
None.
The man bought it.
And I ate it.
At this point, I started thinking maybe the collision was divinely orchestrated.
Because what are the chances?
Out of everybody at the event, this man bumped into me. Out of every possible person he could have offended, he offended a woman who loves food. And instead of running away from the situation, he started buying food.
God was writing a script.
Later, when it was time for me to leave, he offered to take me home.
I said no at first.
Because obviously, I have home training.
Then he asked again.
I said, “Okay.”
Don't judge me.
You weren't there.
The journey home was one of those conversations where you suddenly realise you have been talking for an hour and somehow it doesn't feel like an hour.
We talked about everything.
Family. Work. Faith. Abuja. Food. Life. Relationships.
And somehow, without forcing anything, the conversation just flowed.
When we got to my house, he made sure I got in safely.
Then he looked at me and said:
“I hope I didn't ruin your day.”
I smiled.
“No. You actually made it better.”
And that was it.
He left.
I went upstairs.
Put my bag down.
Looked at the food he had bought me.
Then sat on my bed.
And started smiling like an idiot.
I said to myself:
“Please don't start.”
Because I know myself.
One nice man buys you food and suddenly your imagination has already named your children. So I calmed down. I reminded myself that I am a mature woman. A responsible woman. A woman who has prayed too much to start building castles because somebody has nice teeth.
But then my phone rang.
It was him.
“Did you get in?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“Good. I'm glad.”
And that was when I knew I was in trouble. Because Abuja men have done many things to us. They have called us “beautiful” and disappeared. They have said “I really like you” and entered witness protection. They have said “Let's go with the flow” when there was clearly no destination. They have sent “Good morning beautiful” for six consecutive months without ever making a plan.
But this one?
He actually followed through.
He called.
He checked in.
He planned another date.
Then another.
He remembered what I liked.
He remembered what I said.
He kept his word.
And somewhere along the way, this man who had accidentally bumped into me while I was trying to protect my precious food became the man I couldn't imagine my life without.
Now, let me tell you something.
Before I met him, I had prayed.
I had prayed.
Shiloh?
Present.
NSPPD morning prayers?
Present.
Pastor Jerry Eze?
I was there.
Commanding the Day Midnight Prayer?
Don't play with me.
Hallelujah Challenge?
After CTDMP?
Present and accounted for.
Morning prayer. Afternoon prayer. Midnight prayer. Praise. Worship. Declarations. At some point, Heaven must have looked at my file and said:
“This girl is not going to stop.”
And I wasn't.
Because I had reached that stage of singleness where you start getting personally offended when somebody says:
“Your husband will come at the right time.”
Which right time?
Abeg.
Is there a tracking number? Can I track him on Google Maps? Is he currently in Abuja? Has he passed the Suleja checkpoint? Do I need to send somebody to go and bring him?
Because I am 30.
I am still young.
I am beautiful.
I have sense.
I can cook small.
I can pray.
I can make somebody laugh.
I am a fairly decent human being.
Baba God! Prove to my enemies that I am not a wood!
And maybe that was the funniest part. I had been praying for God to send me a husband.
Meanwhile, God apparently said:
“Let's start with lunch.”
Because my husband didn't arrive with thunder. There was no angel blowing trumpet. He simply bumped into me while I was holding food. And I, a woman who had spent months telling everybody that she was perfectly content being single, looked up at this tall, handsome man and thought:
“Hmm. This one can stay.”
So yes.
That is how I met my husband.
At The Village by Tikera.
Over spilled food, an offended handbag, several apologies, free food, one accidental tour and a ride home.
Was it romantic?
Not initially.
Was it chaotic?
Absolutely.
Was I thinking about marriage when it happened?
Not at all.
I was thinking about food.
But perhaps that is how God works.
Sometimes you are busy asking Him for a husband and He is busy arranging the collision.
Literally.
And if you ever see me at an Abuja event looking suspiciously interested in a handsome man, please mind your business.
I am not searching.
I am simply...
conducting research.
Because apparently, my husband can be anywhere.
At a wedding.
At church.
At a networking event.
At The Village by Tikera standing directly in front of you after accidentally scattering your lunch.
And if this entire story somehow makes it onto the Internet with my face attached to it, or somebody forwards it into that one Abuja WhatsApp group where everybody knows everybody, please...
I beg you.
Don't show my mother.
Don't show my aunties.
Don't send it to anybody who knows me personally.
Because in real life, I am actually very demure. Very reserved. Very composed. Very SINGLE.
I don't chase men.
I don't even look for men.
I simply...
strategically position myself where my husband may potentially be.
There is a difference. But if somehow in the middle of this story I didn't say your mind as a single pringle? Darling, you must be worst than me. Sis, you need to chill.
Please respect my privacy, biko.
